As January comes to an end, the year enters full early spring, and I check the buds on trees and shrubs to be sure I have my seasons right.
I feel the hard, scarlet buds on the wild roses. I find the pale, supple buds of the honeysuckle, the blood-red buds on the blackberry canes.
I feel the fleshy, orange buds of the buckeyes, the tight, round, silver buds of the dogwoods. I touch the woody buds of the crab apples, the phallic protrusions of the ginkgoes, the soft green buds of the lilac, the sharp and thorn-like buds of the American beech, the deep purple bud cluster of the red maples.
I stroke the gray velvety buds of the white magnolia, the spongy opening pussy willow buds, the yellow-brown, fat sweet gum buds the buds of the tree-of-heaven, hiding in the hollows of last year’s branches, the pink quince buds, their color just starting to show
And all these buds and shoots and clusters convince me that they really are promises, prophesies, infallible predictions and forecasts of spring,
This is Bill Felker with Poor Will’s Almanack. I’ll be back again next week with more notes on nature and the seasons. In the meantime, just go outside and touch the promises and they will come true.
